May I Have This Dance?
by God of Mishief
Summary: "Greg, since our boyfriends are being so…uncooperative…would you care to join me for a dance?" John held out his hand. "Would love to," Greg grinned, taking the offered appendage. Jealousy did not become the Holmes boys, except, well, when it did. Mystrade/Johnlock


Disclaimer: I do not own the show, the characters, or anything of the sort. I do not profit from this.

Dedication and backstory: This story was written specifically for my lovely girlfriend. She and I had taken a BBC Sherlock personality quiz, and she received Greg Lestrade while I was Mycroft Holmes. It was only then I found out she was a Mystrade shipper, and although I was never against the ship, it wasn't my cruise line of choice. However, this is a bit of a gift to her, and she insists, because it's us, I must ship it, even though I thought I never would. I love you, Nin!

Warnings: OOC, some sexual situations, alcohol consumptions, threats of violence, and abuse of italics.

Ships: Mystrade and Johnlock

Timeline: post-TRF

May I Have This Dance?

Mycroft stood with the posture of a person used to being the most powerful person in the room. He normally was, and that included now. He had agreed to go to this office Christmas party at his boyfriend's insistence. Surely, it wasn't the most Greg could have asked for, and Mycroft had Anthea push around his schedule so he could attend the little event. After all, he never took Greg to any of his work functions for fear that his relationship with the Detective Inspector would be used against him, not as a teasing aspect, but fearing they would genuinely threaten Greg's health and well-being to receive Mycroft's compliance. Mycroft was not prepared to make the choice between Greg and The Work, his heart and his brain, quite yet. He doubted he ever would be, and was thusly avoiding situations that may cause the necessity at all costs.

He sipped the cheap wine that was the only stuff available, watching the crowd carefully, absorbing nearly all the information his younger brother would, but rather than voice it, he filed it away. He used his information as concealed weaponry. He hid his ability away, whereas Sherlock broadcasted his brilliance for the world. There was very little Mycroft didn't know about these people anyway. He had done background checks on everyone at various points.

"Hello, brother dear," Mycroft nodded his head, tipping his glass towards the detective, always requiring a prop in his hand for these meetings, whether it be his umbrella or a cup of tea or a bitter measure of red wine.

"Got roped into this, did you?" Sherlock made a face as he sipped his own wine.

"Gregory insisted. The good doctor did as well, I assume?"

"Apparently, these are our _friends_ and _colleagues_ and thus we must deal with their presence during the holiday season. It was intolerable enough without this. If John hadn't brought up all the Christmases I was absent…" Sherlock rolled his eyes, looking vaguely regretful as he referred to the years post fake suicide. Mycroft didn't like pondering that time too much either; first, he thought he had lost his brother. When he found out he was wrong, and he had to assist him, he had to deal with lying to Greg, with whom he was just beginning a relationship with, and the guilt of knowing all of it was his fault to begin with, all stemming from a miscalculation with disastrous effects. Dealing with Greg after he found out about Mycroft's falsehood was enough to make his already cautious nature on higher alert. It was rare that the man was wrong. He didn't require a repeat performance.

"Never thought I would see the day where someone had control over Sherlock Holmes," Mycroft sneered, but Sherlock saw it for the good natured teasing it was: _"I'm happy you've found someone you want to listen to more than yourself."_

"I doubted there would ever be a person who would willingly subject themselves to an extended amount of time in your presence." _"I'm glad someone can make you happy."_

"I suppose I'm grateful for that," Mycroft watched as Greg danced with Molly. Mycroft danced, sure, but not unless the situation called for it. He wasn't gifted with his brother's grace.

"Don't be; he just stays for the cake."

"Then I suppose I should warn you: John's only with you for your scarf," Mycroft and Sherlock both shifted their attention to the doctor, who was having what appeared to be a wonderful time, spinning one of the female officers, whose husband was off to the side, having given his approval, around the floor.

"The scarf?" It took a lot to surprise his baby brother, and Mycroft was proud he had accomplished it.

"Oh yes, the scarf; he does so enjoy a good cashmere accessory." They both let our small bits of laughter, looking away from each other so as to pretend they weren't having "a moment"; they would blame the bad alcohol later if it was brought up.

"This is a sight to see," Greg grinned as he looked over the Holmes boys.

"You two are actually getting along," John giggled, having ingested more than his fair share of the wine. "I never thought I would see the day. Praise baby Jesus."

"Baby Jesus?" Sherlock's nose scrunched.

"It's Christmas. I was trying to be Christmas-y."

"Your vocabulary diminishes severely when you get inebriated," Sherlock looked both entertained and exasperated.

"Come dance with me, then," John leaned in closer. Mycroft tried not to laugh at how uncomfortable his brother seemed at the prospect of joining the mass of sweaty bodies at various stages of drunkenness.

"You too, My," Greg tugged at his sleeve.

"Gregory, as fond as I am of you, I am not as fond of your co-workers," he tipped his head back distastefully, motioning to them

Greg narrowed his eyes at both Holmes. He and John looked at each other, a plan forming in their eyes. Although the brothers could tell when the mischief bloomed in their gazes, they weren't quite sure what to expect next. They just knew it wasn't likely to be good. Unfortunately, their weaknesses were literally working against them.

"Greg, since our boyfriends are being so…_uncooperative_…would you care to join me for a dance?" John held out his hand.

"Would love to," Greg grinned, taking the offered appendage.

"Oh wait," John pulled back for a minute, and Mycroft had the blind hope he would stop this madness.

No, instead, John pulled off the truly horrendous Christmas jumper he had been wearing to reveal his red button up underneath. Judging by Sherlock's swallow, and his intense stare, it was the shirt Sherlock appreciated the most, and Mycroft could, unfortunately, see why. The doctor still had a good amount of muscle and definition from his time in the military and chasing Sherlock around London, and the shirt was tight enough to show that off. Greg seemed to notice too, much to Mycroft's irritation.

"Hold this for me, will ya? Thanks, Sherlock," John didn't look at him twice, instead taking the Detective Inspector's hand, turning his dark blue gaze on him. Mycroft could suddenly see all Sherlock found attractive. John Watson radiated sensuality if he so chose; he was choosing to then. Greg wasn't as daft as Sherlock thought, and John wasn't being subtle, and Mycroft suddenly feared his body, which had admittedly indulged in more than its necessary intake of cakes, wouldn't be enough to hold his dear Gregory to him.

"I thought my brother was the only man you were attracted to, Doctor Watson!" Mycroft called out, masking his desperation by pompousness.

"I didn't get nicknamed Three Continents Watson for having a limited mind, Mycroft," John grinned devilishly. "After all, I was in the army for over a decade. There weren't always women around."

And so began the dance of hell. John and Greg were both very sexual beings when they wanted to be, and right then they were determined to put on a show.

"Don't give them the satisfaction," Mycroft warned his brother. "They're only trying to manipulate us into doing what they want."

"I am aware. John didn't have to bring up his previous sexual encounters, though. That's just uncalled for," Sherlock's eyes narrowed where Greg had his hands _too fucking low _on John's hips.

"Admittedly smart as well," Mycroft tried not to cringe as John pulled Greg closer, rubbing on him in a way that seemed possessive, too damn possessive of something that _was not his_, in Mycroft's mind.

"Why is it that it's _now _they choose to use their brain cells?" Sherlock hissed as Greg very clearly... "Tell him to stop groping my boyfriend! That part of him is only for me!"

Sherlock's bellow attracted the attention of several officers nearby.

"What's going on, freak?" Donovan asked. She followed his gaze and gasped at the sight of her boss and the doctor.

"What the hell…?" Anderson blinked in surprise.

"Shut up, you bumbling band of idiots!" Mycroft barked, losing his temper. He was frustrated, furious, and aroused in equal measure. Jealousy did not become the Holmes boys, except, well, when it did.

"Who are you?" Anderson scoffed.

"I'm Mycroft Holmes," he growled, eyes like lasers on every pointed of contact between the two men on the dance floor. "Since when does music need such vulgar dancing in order to enjoy it?!"

"He's my brother, obviously. And _if his boyfriend doesn't stop grabbing John's arse I'm going to put him in the fridge, dismembered with the rest of the bodies!_"

"His boyfriend? Lestrade is your boyfriend?" Sally asked.

"Obviously," Mycroft spat, sounding very much like his younger brother. "_And if John makes his cock brush up against Gregory's one more time, I'm going to have him locked in the worst prison imaginable where I will torture him on a daily basis!_"

"How will he put him in prison?" Anderson asked.

"My older brother _is _the British Government, you imbecile," Sherlock growled. "Forget this!"

He and Mycroft locked eyes and came to the same conclusion, nodding briefly at one another, before storming up to the men grinding on each other on the dance floor.

Sherlock grabbed John by the front of his red shirt.

"You want a dance so badly? Fine! But if I _ever _see you touch another person like that, I will become the psychopath everyone accuses me of being," Sherlock threatened.

Greg looked up at Mycroft, worried and smug.

"You evil, clever man," Mycroft shook his head, planted his lips to Greg's firmly. "_My _evil, clever man. If anyone ever touches your cock again, and it is not me, I was abuse every bit of power I wield to make them suffer for the rest of their pathetic lives."

Mycroft held the shorter man to him by the back of his neck and the dip of his back. "I do not care how we know them. I do not care if I am on my death bed. I don't care if they are threatening to kill me. No one else is to touch you. _And if you and Doctor Watson ever try to dance again, I will tear your clothes off and have you on this floor, in front of Baby Jesus, your co-workers, and the dear Queen herself. Am I understood?"_

"Yes, sir," Greg shivered.

"Good. Now." Mycroft cleared his throat as the song changed to something classical, a tune he knew. "May I have this dance?"


End file.
